


such extreme measures

by r1ker



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker





	such extreme measures

"Stop it."

 

Holland bears down on him again and Jackson wants to swiftly retract his comment. They're both naked as the day they were born, Jackson unable to take his eyes off of the freckles blooming on the top of Holland's shoulders. Hands bracket either side of Jackson's head and he's met with Holland's voracious gaze on him. Behind them both the pressure changes, both on the bed and in Jackson's lap, as Holland begins to move again.

 

"Stop what?" Holland responds breathlessly as his hips move deep and deliberately. Oh, he knows what, and perhaps that's what going to kill Jackson before he comes. It's in the way Holland mounted him without much preamble other than a mutual nod of agreement that what they're doing right now is very much okay for both parties involved. Not only was it perfectly fine Holland seemed to be the most enthusiastic for it, leaving weals along Jackson's waistline in his efforts to pull off the man's jeans and boxers.

 

"Being so fucking proud you were able to get me on my back so easily," Jackson admits with his own movements falling into sync with Holland's as if on reflex. Holland laughs, takes in a deeper breath when his hands dig in more now into Jackson's chest. The hum from that seems to reverberate between them and Jackson takes in a deep breath.

 

"Not hard at all, truth be told," Holland twists back on the palm of one hand at that, almost like he's looking back to see where Jackson is thrusting in and out of him with utmost ease. Jackson watches his eyes close and a sigh escape him when he finds what he's looking for, visual confirmation of the cock inside him.

 

Holland clears his throat before he speaks again. "You're a lightweight."

 

Jackson's not even going to debate that last statement, and even if he could he's not sure he could find the strength to formulate an appropriate argument. They'd come together as if they were forged to be a matching pair, his hands sliding into Holland's hair, down his neck, shoving off in the process that ridiculously patterned shirt he'd insisted on wearing to their latest stake. And Holland, Jackson would always be able to counter argue to any sort of debate as to his sexual response, was more than willing, making noises all the while that were far too good to never be heard again.

 

"Says you," Jackson grunts out. They've begun to shift their weight once again, the urge and the pace becoming more urgent as a consequence. Beneath them the bed tries to give as best as it can for being what Jackson was once told was _top quality for the nighttime_ by a salesman who sounded like he wanted to make good on that sales pitch. Jackson had paid the bill, had it delivered and dressed with sheets bearing a thread count too sinful to put into perspective of the price, and lived his life. Until Holland.

 

He's got a feeling that last little provision is going to be coming back to haunt him from then on. Both physically, and at this point if Holland isn't completely careful with himself, he's going to ruin those sheets. Part of Jackson knows he shouldn't be so keen to buy a new set in an instant just to know he was the one to do that to Holland. He is, he's so inept to everything that could come from a night like this.

 

That night's going to slip away from him real fucking quick if he doesn't get his head out of the clouds and back into the effort to try and stop him from blowing his load not ten minutes in. He tries to make it look like he's not struggling to breathe, chest heaving like a bellows. Here on his back it's like the world is gathered around him paired up to drive him into madness, Holland at the helm as their willing commander.

 

Speaking of Holland, if Jackson was capable of taking a picture right now, he'd do so without hesitation. Holland is all red flush and blond hair wilting under sweat, cheeks burning hot with exertion as he fucks himself on Jackson. He doesn't seem to want to talk anymore, favoring focused silence rather than mindless chatter distracting him from the task at hand. Jackson's insane with it. Part of him wants to twist, jerk, do something to elicit another response from Holland. The other is perfectly content with the only noises not made by them to be the air conditioning unit in the window.

 

Holland breathes softly, each intake of air and exhale focused and steady as he maintains his balance, his focus. Thumbs press low at his belly, one on either side of his ribs. Jackson drinks in every part of him as he moves, the red that blooms when an even bite worries away at a lower lip, and finally, the relieved sigh as he comes up his own chest. Holland chokes on a groan as it spills down to his belly to just below Jackson's belly button, still moving up and down but more relaxed as he works on getting the most from the high.

 

At this point Jackson could give up his own life if it meant coming inside Holland. This is the first time they are both skin-to-skin, aware of their bodies' capacities enough to go bare, nothing standing in between them. Holland leans down and kisses him as Jackson comes, rearing off of the bed and digging into the backs of Holland's thighs with jagged fingernails. Soft breaths ghost across his ear as Jackson comes down from the unimaginable high.

 

After a while Holland's knees begin to burn, Jackson's hips begin to ache. They part with a light air of unwillingness; having grown accustomed to the ease and the excellence their bodies being together yielded. Holland makes a valiant effort to clean himself in the aftermath using his previously discarded shirt, finishing his lackluster work with a swift yank of the sheets balled up at the end of his bed over the both of their bodies.

 

Despite all they've done together neither one is tired. One bedside lamp turns on to fill the small perimeter around it with dim golden light. Holland rests on his side, gingerly when taking into consideration an arm previously broken that still threatens to ache with any sort of pressure. Jackson faces him and can't help but look at where Holland's arm was repaired, raised and red marks signifying previously removed stitches.

 

If he thinks on it as hard as he's prone to doing when feeling guilty about something he can remember the way Holland screamed as the bone, muscle, skin gave way under unprompted motions and his stomach goes sour in an instant. That's nowhere near enough to stop him from remaining in this bed with him but it makes him think, mosey up the apology long overdue.

 

"Sorry about that, by the way," Jackson murmurs, his hand first going to the wound then to pass lightly over Holland's hair, who leans into his touch as if on reflex. Despite the way his knees go to jelly with Jackson's fingers stroking against his scalp Holland pulls his arm away anyway, brings it in closer to his naked torso.

 

He watches Jackson's face fall a little, and he still can't figure out why his brain let him know that was the right thing to do in that moment, but he doesn't want to think about that right now. Holland doesn't want to dwell on where they began as partners. It was really strange how this all happened, how they went from breaking arms and slapping the backs of heads on the streets to this, lying side by side nude. To be told nothing in his life has ever come without its own strange price tag, and perhaps he'll take it at face value.

 

"I know," he says back, lets Jackson kiss his hand when his tone seems to indicate otherwise emotionally. Lips against the back of his knuckles make him flush crimson and he does that same pulling back thing, this time to stop himself from saying something ridiculous. Jackson scoots a little closer and presses his forehead to Holland's.

 

Jackson laughs a little when their contact turns into an impromptu staring contest. He furrows his brow and Holland does the same. "If it makes you feel any better I'll let you break my arm one day." He takes a second to think about what he's just said – fool for whatever type of love this could ever resemble – and corrects himself. "Left. Not right. I've got to be able to drive and, you know, write."

 

Holland snickers and kisses his temple, pats the arm Jackson put forth for breaking as he spoke. "Not a chance. You don't need to be subjected to the pitiful stares I got with the cast on." Vaguely he remembers an old woman asking what he'd done to wrong someone so severely. "I finally got sick of them asking so I'd fuck with whoever asked me. Told one I pissed off a few loan sharks and this is the least they could do without shortening my lifespan by fifty years."

 

Jackson, this time the one charmed instead of the charmer, kisses him once, twice, quick but relaxed passes of their lips. "Don't think for a second a loan shark would leave you hanging with just a broken arm. Maybe two, throw in a kneecap."

 

"That's a little crass. I don't think I come off as the type to require such extreme measures, now do I?" If Jackson were asked this question six weeks earlier he'd respond with a resounding, damn near enthusiastic, yes. But now, lying next to him in his bed, knowing more about him than he perhaps bargained for the second they became a pair, he shakes his head.

 

Jackson's fingers pass again over the shell of his ear and use the loose strands of his hair as leverage against the kiss. A moan passes between them, one soft enough to signify it came from Holland. The two part once more and Holland appears out of breath, more than enough leverage for what Jackson's got to say next. "You never have."


End file.
